This prayer is for you
blacksmith who are above the heavens
and in the depths of a uterus
chiselling here seeds of male
stars up there as potassium
I saw her
now imagined in you, daughter
bewitching the workshop of your belly
the future mother,
and it would begin to rain
to cushion the gap
I would therefore a sweet earthquake surgery
asportasse our room and c’innalzasse
sort of plateau afloat in the sky
ten thousand feet from the buzz of the world
honeyed insect teeming millions
annoying as filthy fantasies that television hurls us
which dish novel poison
on our tables, saddened
flood spazzaci on, throw me out earthquake
the wind will make us two spheres of silence
then we will pay the locksmith in an eight lying.
Sfinendo we lost in the molten metal of creation.
Praise to you, or blacksmith.